"Home," he called to the driver.
We took the same route that we had come by, and consequently again passed Mariana Ravensky's window. Each of us looked up, but Mariana was no longer there.
"Captain," said Zodomirsky, "will you render me a service?"
"Whatever you wish," I replied.
"I count upon you to tell my poor Mariana the result of this miserable affair."
"I will do so. And when?"
"Now. The sooner the better. Stop!" cried Zodomirsky to the coachman. He stopped, and I descended, and the carriage drove on.
Zodomirsky had hardly entered when he saw me appear in the doorway of the saloon. Without doubt my face was pale, and wore a look of consternation, for Zodomirsky sprang towards me, crying—
"Great heavens, Captain! What has happened?"
I drew him from the saloon.
"My poor friend, haste, if you wish to Mariana alive. She was at her window; she saw Stamm gallop past. Stamm being alive, it followed that you were dead. She uttered a cry, and fell. From that moment she has never opened her eyes."
"Oh, my presentiments!" cried Zodomirsky, "my presentiments!" and he rushed, hatless and without his sabre, into the street.
On the staircase of Mlle. Ravensky's house he met the doctor, who was coming down.
"Doctor," he cried, stopping him, "she is better, is she not?
"Yes," he answered, "better, because she suffers no more."
"Dead!" murmured Zodomirsky, growing white, and supporting himself against the wall. "Dead!"
"I always told her, poor girl! that, having a weak heart, she must avoid all emotion———"
But Zodomirsky had ceased to listen. He sprang up the steps, crossed the hall and the saloon, calling like a madman—
"Mariana! Mariana!"
At the door of the sleeping chamber stood Mariana's old nurse, who tried to bar his progress. He pushed by her, and entered the room.
"He threw himself on his knees by the bedside."
Mariana was lying motionless and pale upon her bed. Her face was calm as if she slept. Zodomirsky threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, and seized her hand.
It was cold, and in it was clenched a curl of black hair.
"My hair!" cried Zodomirsky, bursting into sobs.
"Yes, yours," said the old nurse, "your hair that she cut off herself on quitting you at St. Petersburg. I have often told her it would bring misfortune to one of you."
If anyone desires to learn what became of Zodomirsky, let him inquire for Brother Vassili, at the Monastery of Troitza.
The holy brothers will show the visitor his tomb. They know neither his real name, nor the causes which, at twenty-six, had made him take the robe of a monk. Only they say, vaguely, that it was after a great sorrow, caused by the death of a woman whom he loved.
